by Lee Henschel
“Are you first son, Reggie?”
“Yes. I have one younger brother. Archibald. No sisters. You?”
“Two brothers. John and Albert. And a baby sister, Peg. John’s oldest and father expects him to become a farrier. Why didn’t you join your father?”
“I told him I wished to become a surgeon.”
“What did he say?”
“At first he said no. A surgeon enjoys less status in society than a chartered accountant, and he makes far less money. Father saw my determination, though, and finally gave in. Fortunately he knew Mr. Starling and arranged for me to serve as his loblolly.”
“Oh. That was good.”
“Not good for father, I don’t think. He sent me to Mr. Starling, and soon Mr. Starling signed a surgeon’s contract with the Royal Navy and was assigned to Eleanor. He offered me a chance to join him and I took it. That was six months ago. Now father worries not just for my future but for my life.”
“Ajax says a warship’s fierce dangerous. More dangerous than a farrier, I think.”
“Very true. Except a surgeon and his mate serves in the orlop during battle, below the waterline where it’s safe from cannon shot. Even so, father wasted no time bringing on my brother Archie, to join in the discovery of the swindle.”
“Does your father ever discover the swindle?”
“Often. But not always. Sometimes a purser gets wind of an audit and makes sure his phantom ledger’s nowhere to be found. Or he takes corrective measures. That’s why Mr. Starling has asked me to maintain our own ship’s roster.” Reggie put down his quill. “Say! Aren’t you the curious one today. What else is on your mind?”
“Well . . .”
“Let’s hear it.”
“That fellow from the press . . . the one Mr. Starling dismissed, was it because he’s simple?”
“Yes. Although Mr. Starling detected signs of typhus as well.”
“But Tate. If he’s simple, then why’s he allowed onboard?”
“Tate’s case is different. He wasn’t pressed. Too young for that. Mr. Starling thinks Tate’s a stowaway. Probably brought on by someone who had ship’s business and then left behind. Someone who no longer wanted him, or could no longer take care of him. Perhaps even his mother.”
“Or his father . . . like mine. He wasn’t able to take care of me. Not after mum died.”
Reggie nodded and gave me a pat. “I know that, Harriet. I’m not quite sure why the boy stays onboard, though. He’s not on Mr. Starling’s list. That’s certain. But I do suspect the boy’s on Coutts’s list.”
“His phantom list?”
“Aye. And Tate might be allowed to stay for another reason, as well. Mr. Starling believes he might be a son of a gun.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s like this, the Royal Navy doesn’t allow its ratings to go ashore. They’d all of them run if they were let off . . . or most, anyway, and who could blame them? So to keep things from getting out of hand the navy permits women to come onboard, onto the gun deck where the men mess. To visit. And the like.”
“Yes. And the like.”
“Well, sometimes ‘the like’ results in a child begot on the gun deck . . . some wife or darling quickened right there between the guns. And one like that’s called a son of a gun.”
“And Mr. Starling thinks that about Tate?”
“He thinks it’s possible. Maybe whoever snuck him on was a woman who had a child made on the gun deck and feels the navy, after a fashion, is the father. If such is so, then Mr. Starling thinks the navy has an obligation, since Tate’s father may very well be fighting the French.”
“That’s most kind of Mr. Starling.”
“Mr. Starling is a kind man. But Mr. Starling isn’t in the navy.”
“He’s not?”
“No. He’s a contract surgeon. A civilian. And what he thinks of naval matters carries little weight, so the boy may be put off yet. That would be unfortunate for Tate . . . if the boy goes ashore he’ll likely die within the year. Or worse.”
“There’s a hundred more like him in Portsmouth, Reggie, and no one to watch out for them.”
“Well... at least Tate is looked after onboard Eleanor.”
“By who? Certainly not Pogue.”
“No, not that one.”
“Who then?”
“That would be us, don’t you think?”
“Us?”
“Yes. You and me.”
“Why should we do that?”
Reggie looked me in the eye. “Because, Harriet, Tate hears it, too.”
“Hears what?”
“I think you know.”
Chapter Four
Ajax was mistaken when he said I’d not be in my hammock often, or for long, because for the next three days I was in my hammock not at all. I was permitted a few hours rest now and then, to stuff my mouth with ship’s biscuit and jam, curl in some cranny for a nod, then go follow the captain again. Mostly he remained on the quarterdeck consulting with Mr. Lau, the sailing master, or Lieutenant Rainey, his first officer. I ran errands, fetched so-and-so and retrieved such-and-such.
Finally Eleanor got under way for the first of her sea trials and she made her way up the Solent under an empty sky and a brisk westerly, her flying jib and reefed fore gallant filling smart. The piper struck a hornpipe and the Eleanors turned out by divisions to man the yards and sing Heart of Oak. The marines formed in the waist, their bayonets gleaming, each Brown Bess held at slope arms, cockades fringed in white, black hats worn at a jaunty angle and leather neck stocks braced stiff. Each marine tricked out neat—blood red tunics over white cotton ducks and black, laced boots. As we passed under Calshot Castle the captain ordered Eleanor’s nine-pounder to fire a harbour salute. When Calshot dipped her standard our sea trials began.
The routine wore on until on the third morning of sea trials. As Eleanor plunged on Mr. Lau approached Captain Cedric.
“If I may, sir, I’d like to run on the wind for the next hour. I suspect we’re on Eleanor’s best point of sail and I would like to record her speed and motion. Perhaps this might be a good time to call down the top men. I wish to hear what they have to say about their aerie.”
“Very well, Mr. Lau. Call them down. Have the mast captains remain on their tops and I’ll have a word with them myself. It’s time I go aloft.”
The captain climbed the mizzen, then the foremast. And when he came to the mainmast he summoned me to follow him onto the outboard rails and up the shrouds. I’d been on the shrouds once before, never high though, and never when Eleanor was under way and heeling on the wind. The gap between ratlines was overmuch for my short legs and the tarry shrouds too wide for my hands to grip firm. I was most thankful when the captain stopped just beneath the maintop and yelled down to me.
“Wait here, boy.”
He climbed onto the futtock shrouds, hanging near upside down far above the deck and when Eleanor rolled in a swell he swung himself clear around the block and tackle to gain the maintop. Soon his head appeared in the portal and reached down a hand.
“Grab hold, boy, and come this way.”
The wind swept through the rigging, the course and topsails luffing and then filling smart when the helm corrected or the deck trimmed the sheets. Once squared on the maintop Captain Cedric addressed the captain of the mainmast, McFerron. The shrouds and stays buzzed energetic, and I only understood the last of what Captain Cedric said.
“Watch the boy, McFerron, and go easy. He’s not been aloft before.”
“Aye, sir.”
The captain hailed the lookout down and sent him below to the deck. Then he went higher aloft on his own. I watched him work his way up the narrowing shrouds and come to rest on the mainmast crosstrees, scanning the sea, serving now as Eleanor’s first set of eyes. I looked beyond the main yard to the sea, deep blue and cresting white, heaving slow and sure. The wind blew moderate and smelled sky clean and glorious untamed, strumming constant on the taught riggin
g. Eleanor rolled easy, the maintop leaning clear out over her beam and the sea running straight below. McFerron spit his quid far overboard, and I counted five ticks before it hit the water.
As captain of the mainmast McFerron was Eleanor’s finest topman. He was about thirty, and a salty one, his curly red hair braided in a tight a queue. He watched me careful, his eyes set wide and blue as the sea in a face weathered ruddy. He wore no shirt, only duck pants, one loop for his knife and one for his spike. Like all top men he went barefoot, to use his toes for gripping the foot ropes and for the sure feel of a yardarm when he walked it. He sat cross-legged, his back propped against the mast reaving a rope end, his nimble fingers working almost of a will. Finally he spoke.
“Stand to windward, boy.”
“Is that where the wind comes from, sir?”
“Aye. Now brace yourself on the deadeyes.”
“What are they, sir?”
“The line of block and tackle that secure the shrouds. Do it.”
I inched careful to the windward deadeyes and grabbed a shroud with both hands.
“This is better. Thank you, sir.”
“I’m no’ a sir. I’m a topman. McFerron.”
“Aye, McFerron.”
“What’s yer strong hand, lad?”
“My right.”
“Then hold that shroud with yer right hand and let go with the left. Stand you broad afoot and let the left hand swing free for the balance and sway. And best ye no look down if ye dunna have to.”
“Aye. How far is it down from here?”
“Five hundred feet.”
“Five hundred!”
He laughed most sharp and wild. “Might as well be, boy, if ye were to fall. But no . . . it’s ninety-three feet.”
I nodded, then looked to the horizon and saw nothing but sea.
“McFerron?”
“What, lad?”
“How far are we from land?”
“Five hundred feet.”
“But I don’t see any land! Where is it?”
“No matter if you see it. The land’s still five hundred feet, under water!”
He laughed once more, a banshee’s howl flying free on the wind. That’s when I began to know the ways of a topman, some of their ways, at least. Serving aloft is most dangerous, and top men are respected above all seamen for their skill and pluck. Their hands are uncommon strong. Their bodies lean and limber. And the very best have the limbs and reach of a daddy long leg. It takes great skill and years of experience to be a topman. But experience is not enough to keep you aloft. For a topman must be born of a thing lacking in most men. A topman must be a maniac.
Captain Cedric drove Eleanor’s crew relentless. I learned that sea trials were meant not just to try the ship, but to try the men as well. Who would break? Eleanor? Her men? Captain Cedric? Harriet? Not I. Nor anyone. Eleanor did groan. She did bark and snap and rattle her chains and give way. But she did not give in. And only after those first few days of running up channel to Eastbourne, reaching to Fécamp on the Normandy coast so Eleanor might reveal herself to her mortal enemy for the first time, then back to Portsmouth and into the Solant—only then did the captain stand us down. After securing in the roads he invited his officers to join him in the great cabin for a light repast and to share observations.
I was most tired of sea trials and wished to rest, but not before setting the captain’s table and pouring a glass of port for his officers. I was permitted to nod then, not in my hammock, but in the stern gallery, ready to serve when called. I nodded deep but not overlong, before hearing the scrape of chair legs as Eleanor’s officers offered their compliments and bid the captain good night. Except one. Eleanor’s fourth lieutenant, Gabriel Towerlight, who the captain asked to stay. Towerlight was near twenty-five, a bit old for the fourth officer on a frigate. Blond hair cropped short. His deep brown eyes made him look most serious.
“A word with you, Towerlight. You may sit.”
“Aye, sir.” The lieutenant took a chair.
I made to leave but the captain ordered me to tidy up. I went about my duties as he leaned back, gazing at the low beams overhead, then began.
“‘Flawless shot. Best gunners. Best gun sections serving on best gun. That will produce best results.’ Does that statement sound familiar to you, Towerlight?”
Towerlight looked surprised, then he smiled. “It does, sir. It’s my ballistics, sir.”
“Tell me more.”
“My gunnery theory, sir.”
“I understand gunners and gun sections and best guns, Towerlight. But what do you mean by flawless shot?”
“A good ballistic shoots straight because it’s a flawless cast, sir. And a good casting begins in Cumbira.”
“Cumbria?”
“Aye, sir. That’s where I’m from. It’s where high quality graphite comes from to use in refractory molds. For our cannon balls, sir.”
“Ah. You are referring to Grey Knotts Foundry?”
“I am, sir. My father is foreman at Grey Knotts. He taught me the importance of good graphite in casting a flawless ballistic.”
“Go on.”
“Well sir, a gunner will only be as accurate as his shot will allow. So when I told my father I wished to become a gunnery midshipman he fashioned me a custom caliper, to shape the perfect sphere.”
I listened most curious as I polished and stowed the captain’s wine glasses, wondering what a caliper might be and what was the perfect sphere. Did he mean to say spear?
“Good man, your father.”
“Aye sir, he is. I’ve made very good use of that caliper, sir.”
“How is that?”
“I made use of it just last week, sir, when Eleanor took on her ordnance. I made sure to examine each shot and select the best of the lot before we signed for them.”
“Did my gunnery officer instruct you to do that?”
“No, sir. Lieutenant Dunn prefers the Royal Navy’s penchant for the tried and true. Quality and experience distributed evenly across the ship. He considers balanced distribution more important than good ballistics.”
“As would most gunnery officers.”
“Aye, sir. I still think my theory is sound, though.”
The captain smiled. “As well you should.” He turned serious, and leaned in. “In ’94 you served on Trusty. Under Captain Ashbourne.”
Towerlight stiffened and replied tentative. “Aye sir, I did.”
“And you were onboard Trusty when she sank Bayonne in Mona Passage.”
Towerlight hesitated. “Sir, I am under orders not to discuss that engagement.”
The man seemed tense and I took the opportunity to step out, removing the dirty plates and setting them on the deck outside the great cabin. The marine sentry scowled at that, not liking me overmuch for setting my dirty plates at his boots. I smiled and backed away, returning just as the captain explained.
“I understand, Towerlight, and rest assured we will not discuss the actual engagement. I won’t ask you at what range Trusty opened fire on Bayonne. Although unofficially some estimate that Trusty opened fire and hit consistently, mind you, at fourteen hundred yard. That’s two hundred yards better than any ordnance in the Royal Navy.”
Towerlight sat in his chair most upright. I made to leave but the captain stayed me, pointing with his thumb for me to stand at his escritoire. I took my place as the captain went on.
“I wonder, Towerlight, do you know how I came upon your gunnery theory?”
“No, sir.”
The captain stretched back in his chair. “When you served on Trusty you jotted it in the margin of your log, then crossed it out.”
“Aye sir. Marginalia isn’t acceptable for an officer’s log.” He frowned a bit, shifting in is chair. “I thought no one read the logs, sir.”
“Most junior officers think as much—that their logs are forgotten once they’re turned in, only buried deep in the catacombs at Admiralty House. But they are not forgotten. They’re exa
mined closely. And some of what they record might even finds its way into the Gazette.”
“I didn’t know that, sir.”
“I wonder, Towerlight, why there’s never been any mention in the Gazette regarding the action between Trusty and Bayonne. The victory was an outstanding independent action. It should have been lauded, yet it was not.” The captain leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table. “Do you know why that is, lieutenant?”
Towerlight shifted uncomfortable. “Sir, I must remind you?”
“Yes. Yes I know. You are not allowed to discuss it. So just sit you there and I will tell you why there’s no mention of the engagement in the Gazette. Or anywhere else for that matter. Can you permit yourself to sit there and listen?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Good.” The captain leaned forward. “To summarize. The Frogs don’t normally commit to an independent action when they have a choice. So we’ve always assumed Bayonne fought Trusty because she had no choice. She couldn’t allow Trusty to report sighting her. She needed to sink you, don’t you see, so that no one would know her whereabouts. Where she’d been and where she was going. Since ’94, Bayonne’s surviving officers and men have been held at Port Royal. To be sure our people have interrogated her officers and crew. The crew says they knew nothing of Bayonne’s mission. They probably didn’t. But her officers did, and they refuse to talk. I suppose they could be compelled to talk.”
“Do you mean torture, sir?”
“I do. But if we torture their officers then they will torture our officers. Tit-for-tat. So I doubt that will happen. So we may never know what Bayonne was up to, except she was certainly trying to slip through Mona Passage. In any event, we’d prefer if Boney knows nothing of Bayonne’s fate, only than she’s still missing at sea.” The captain cleared his throat. “That’s why the whole thing has been kept from Dispatches and out of the Gazette, don’t you see.”
“I suppose, sir, that the Frogs have agents deployed in London to read the Gazette and forward every edition to Paris.”
I near slept as I stood, yet was drawn to the quill, the ink pot and the ledger still arranged on the captain’s desk. All mysterious. Treasures of an unknown world. Curious markings on the vellum beckoning me to discover their purpose and meaning. The captain’s voice faded in my reverie, then came back.